


i hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

by mackdizzy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, MAJOR spoilers up to season 10 finale, Major Character Death (SORT OF?), POV Second Person, Redemption, Sardonic Humor, Teenagers, Timey-Wimey, im sorry bro, introspective rambling, literally just word vomit, sort. sort of. kind of., time lords as teenagers lmao bet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: 𝘰𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦,𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴,𝘭𝘦𝘵’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨.> "your mind is a jumble of regrets and wishes and questions set to an unwavering beat as you ponder whose fault the sorry state of your life really is, and you are thinking about it so hard you fail to notice that you are dying until your knees give out from under you."
Relationships: The Doctor & The Master (Doctor Who), but if you wanna read it that way the more power to ya, not tagged as ship bc i didnt take a romantic angle
Kudos: 1





	i hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

**Author's Note:**

> ok, so when I said I was going to be writing for more fandoms, this is...NOT what I expected. Not in the slightest. I haven't thought super heavily about this show since I was 12 (so PLEASE don't come @ me for everything I'm about to get wrong), but I have lovely discord friends who dragged me down by the ankles.
> 
> Fun fact! I got a hermit crab when I was 12 and named it Saxon. This was inevitable, wasn't it?
> 
> knowledge from this comes from New Who almost entirely (I know very little about classic, big sorry), though there's some bits and pieces from Girl Power, the wiki, bits and pieces of Master-Knowledge i've picked up throughout the years, and MANY canon-altering HCs that make me look kinda stupid. It is 100% introspective rambling. It's also second person, so sorry, but I think that sort of works best for introspective rambling. I haven't written a whole lot of introspective rambling fics, but oh Well! 
> 
> Would've included some spyfall content, but honestly not very sharp on it and I think ending the story on Missy was telling. Tried to mostly focus on the in-between cracks, rather than stuff we actually see, if just to help me keep this SLIGHTLY short.
> 
> As warned in the tags, this spoils the hell out of everything, especially the end of season 10. Read at your own jurisdiction!
> 
> I'll be working hard on updating DFHE and triptych soon. I have a few other long-term plans to get out into the world as well! Thank you all for your patience.
> 
> (admittedly quite sardonic) title and desc. lyrics are from Ke$ha's Die Young, and oh my GOD, how has NOBODY named a doctor who fanfic this yet?
> 
> rated t for adult language and some adult content (death, blood, but nothing graphic).
> 
> <3!

“Get over here, you stupid genius!” The Doctor calls across the crowd. You try to walk, and all you can do is scream.

_-_

That was six years ago, in the time you will one day measure by. In the sense that if you were a one-hearted creature on the planet Earth, you would’ve now traveled entirely around the sun on your space rock 14 times. In the Academy, you are just what they call  _ young;  _ you will be  _ young  _ until you are  _ of-age,  _ at which point you are sure you will know absolutely everything you need to about the universe. Currently you are  _ young,  _ and you are rhythmically kicking the wall above The Doctor’s bed with your heels as you lay upside-down on it, curly hair a mop around your head as you look down at him.

“You’re putting dents in that, Kos.”

“Oh, like you care about the dents.” You grab one of the pillows off his bed and throw it point-blank at his head, where he ducks and it lands on yours. That means it's your property until you throw it back or he steals it off. Those are just the rules. “You just want me to shut up.”

You think The Doctor must hear that blasted noise as much as you do. Your anxiety brings it around you in a cloud, tapping toes and anxious fingers and the sound against wood desks that has got you banned from writing in anything but feather quills until you graduate. It drives most people far,  _ far  _ away, but he cannot escape it, being your roommate. What baffles you is his seeming desire to follow you around when he does not have to; or maybe it is you that follows him around. You are joined at the hip anyway, and your intention to call him by nothing but his chosen title indicates you want it to be that way for a very, very long time.

“I don’t want you to shut up.” He mutters, pursing his lips and throwing his textbook aside in a way that nearly makes you cringe, leaning on his bed propped up by his elbows. You take the invitation, then, because another few seconds of silence were going to drive you further up the fucking wall than you already permanently reside.

“You’d be the first.” You laugh, reaching out and poking his nose.

“So what?” He laughs right back, batting your hand away. “We don’t need anyone else when we go explore every star in the universe together.” 

It’s a bit of a futile dream--you both know that--but it brings a smile to your lips anyway. “What’ll we even do out there, doc?”

“I dunno. Help some people. See some sights. Get up to some mischief. You can do your ‘conquesting’”--(He made air quotes). “Oh, get your noggin straightened out? There’s gotta be someplace out there where they can do that.” 

This pillow hits its mark and he topples over with a laugh, one that you join him in even though the only reason you threw it was to bottle the urge to place your hands over your ears and scream again, once that hasn’t quite left you in six human years.

**-**

The notice in the window of The Scoundrels Club notes it by critics as  _ Belligerently Loud, Hostilely Raucous, and Thunderously Head-Splitting.  _ This, of course, is why you beeline there after every on-Earth regeneration; you have found it the only place in the world with background din loud enough to give you some peace and fucking quiet.

The good thing about founding a club 400 years ago is that so much time has passed, nobody notices a new face. You’re taken to the penthouse, the one with the view of St James’s Park, and you press a hand to your forehead with infuriating agony. You haven’t been blonde in millennia, and you haven’t heard that  _ noise _ in almost a century. The man leading you to the penthouse notes that you  _ look like you need some peace and quiet,  _ but as soon as you’re far enough away from the din you can’t help but loudly curse and press your palms tight into your eyes; you  _ almost _ wish The Doctor were here, wish he’d take you by the hand and say  _ he doesn’t like the quiet, really  _ for you so you don’t have to. You don’t wish it, but you almost do.

It’s going to be a long campaign.

“Gimme a Bacardi.” You groan to the bartender. He slides you a Daiquiri, which is  _ not  _ what you meant, but it’ll do. You down it at a rapid pace and your palms go back into your eyes, and to stop yourself from hyperventilating you try to steady your breathing to the rhythm of the pulsing music downstairs instead. Regeneration is a nasty  _ bitch  _ of a thing, in a way that you always manage to forget by the time the next one rolls around. Still, you manage a charming smile after things have smoothed themselves out up-top, drumming your fingertips on the counter to help the effort. “You got a mirror?” You beckon with your free hand, and the bartender hands one over.

_ Not bad,  _ you can’t help but think. Better than the last few times, at least. A Premiership is a much easier thing to gain when one is attractive, as much as the world hates to admit it. You can find yourself a wife--people like that, right? You have a stolen TARDIS at your side, one that actually  _ works,  _ and you can’t quite think of a better way to get a girl than that. So yes. Step one: get a girl. Step two: show her the universe. Step three: create a fake past. Step four: contact some good ol’ baddies. Step five: become the Prime Minister. Fuck with some heads along the way (your favorite pastime). Step six: kill the entire cabine--

“Has anyone ever told you that noise is incredibly annoying?”

You grimace, grind your teeth, stop the motion of your fingers, and bottle the urge to throw your drink in his stupid face. “No kidding.” You grab the first coat you see off the rack (the sap won’t miss it) and head for the door. “Put it on my bill.”

**-**

You’re beginning to figure out that you’re kind of a shitty person.

Like, yeah, okay; conquering the universe, champion of planets, world domination, master of evil (no pun intended); those things are kinda cool, you’ll admit it to yourself. You’re arrogant and stubborn and ambitious and determined to live like a king; those things you know. But  _ morality  _ is never really something that’s crossed your mind, not since you were very, very young. It’s an eat-or-be-eaten world! You have gains and ambitions. Who cared about what kind of  _ person  _ you were, right?

“How come you’re always making that noise?”

“Good  _ Lord,  _ Potts, you’ll give me a fucking hearts atta--” You clear your throat. “Heart attack. Sneaking around like that.”

“Yeah, well…I’m a sneaker.” She sits in front of your desk and throws her feet on it, entirely uninvited, and you groan.

“So? Tell.”

You pull a folder out from the topmost drawer, having no idea what’s even in it, but you figure if you look busy for long enough, maybe she’ll leave you alone. She is entirely undeterred, and soon, you force a sigh. “You’d be surprised how few people actually ask me that question.”

She laughs, obviously trying to keep it stifled. “It’s very hard not to notice.”

“Tell me about it.” You bury your face back in the entirely blank folder, already tapping your feet anxiously against the ground. “Listen, my life is way cooler and more awesome than you could ever imagine, Potts, so why don’t you boop-beep on over your station and stop prying about it, hm?”

“Try me, Razor.” Her feet go off the desk and her elbows on it. “I’m  _ not  _ your everyday colonist. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, sights you couldn’t fathom!” You’re already tuning her out. “Secret vaults, sentient puddles, space vacuums, frost fairs--this, there’s--boxes, that travel through space and time and are bigger on the inside--”

The folder slams down. Your feet stop moving. The silence would tear you open inside if your mind wasn’t suddenly  _ viciously  _ inhabited. 

You should leave alone. She’s just a girl, just a worker, just a test subject. To pry any farther, to  _ use her,  _ that would be--well, simply immoral. But a girl like that--she knows too much. To allow her to be human for much longer would simply be a liability.

You’re beginning to realize you’re sort of a shit person. That doesn’t mean you have to regret it.

“Go on.”

**-**

“I don’t talk about that version of myself.”

“Why not, Doctor?” You pull your hair out of its ponytail and let the curls bounce down around your shoulder. “Every piece of you is vitally important. It’s a piece of your life. Part of your identity. You’ve gotta embrace it, at the end of the day.” Just as this new identity is becoming of you; the warmth of a broken TARDIS and a cup of tea, the scrape of a folding chair, an umbrella-full of choices, and two very small voices that always somehow find their way back to each other.

He buttons his shirt all the way up and folds the collar down. “It’s the version I strive to forget. The one that dared to be the villain. That’s a place I will never go back to.”

**-**

Do you regret it?

No--that’s ridiculous. Of course you don’t regret it. She was just a human, just a girl. Wildly insignificant, horrifically meaningless. 

Well, okay, maybe you shouldn’t knock the female presentation. Apparently, it has a lot more benefits than you ever could’ve imagined. You’ve been in this body for what feels like millenia, and yet it feels so short, too. You want more time. You  _ deserve  _ more time here, stagnated, before you move on.  _ More Time  _ is up there with the things you should’ve asked for as a kid (driving lessons rank number one, maybe). When you were  _ real  _ little, maybe. Let The Doctor run ahead without you, take a hundred years or so to get your head straightened out. Might’ve saved a lot of people a lot of trouble.

Even the idea of  _ moving on _ is painful to you. The very real possibility that your work will be striven to be forgotten as soon as something kills this version of you. And it will, eventually. You know that, and you are thinking about it more and more as you let his blood run down your hands--as you let  _ your  _ blood run down your hands. It’s strange, and jarring, and you are beginning to realize why you got here.

There should be some cheesy credits-overlay music playing in the back of your head (if you think hard enough, you can maybe begin to imagine what beat it might be to). Something about  _ how you got here;  _ a  _ where are you now  _ tape, maybe? The Doctor is waiting for you. That you are sure of. You need to get back to him, make sure he is alright. The feeling aches inside both your hearts strong and deep. You feel the urge to throw a pillow at his head or scribble on his homework. You shake the blood off your hands.

You’ve said your piece. This end was inevitable. It is the inevitable end for someone who dared to know The Doctor. You wonder whose fault that was as you practically shove old-you into the lift. Was it his, following at your side like a companion? Did he always know you would fall, and did he always know he would pull you out of the rubble one day? Was it the fault of the Time Lords, as you had always believed, putting it there on purpose to drive you to some great cause? Or was it your fault, following behind his heels like a homesick puppy? Was Rassilon right? Does it all come down to you in the end, you and your poor judgement? Oh, that  _ hurts  _ to think about. Your mind is a jumble of regrets and wishes and questions set to an unwavering beat as you ponder whose fault the sorry state of your life really is, and you are thinking about it so hard you fail to notice that you are dying until your knees give out from under you.

The gold on your hand comes up out of your lungs, and you wallow in the fact that there is no victor in this story. You have destroyed the old version of yourself; you have forced him into becoming you in a never-ending cycle. But he has destroyed you too, and he knows it. You know it. The version of you that dared to be the hero. It’s a place you will never go back to.

**-**

When you awaken in a cryogenic chamber, the back of your head is entirely silent.

For some reason, that makes you want to scream more than anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy comments from anyone who enjoys my work; they keep me going, and I'd be really honored to receive some on this! Thank you all in advance! <3  
> (Try not to only comment on the facts I got wrong, though? I know they're there, but it's been a while, and I tried my best).


End file.
